To Love a Monster
by angel of the silver feather
Summary: Will figures out Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper mere seconds before he realizes he is love with him. I n which Hannibal is in denial (and in hiding), Will is pissed at his runaway lover and Jack is confused and suffering the consequences.


To Love a Monster

i

It happened during dinner, which was really quite apt. What better place to realize that his boyfriend is a serial killer and a psychopath than in said boyfriend's dining room. What's more, it occurred during dinner with Jack Crawford, of all people. Will's first impulse was to get up, approach the wall and bang his head against it repeatedly, for not realizing it sooner. He didn't, though. The next was to laugh, which he managed to restrict to a small smile. Puns may be the lowest form of humor, but that didn't change the fact that they were funny. It never once occurred to him to tell the Agent before him the truth. Not even once.

Hannibal, observant bastard that he is, noticed the smile. Of course he did. Will made no effort to hide his new knowledge when he met and held the sanguine gaze of his lover. It was quite entertaining to watch unadulterated shock settle on the marble face of the man, Jack still blissfully oblivious to it all. _Why_ was he the head of the BAU again?

The shock lasted only for a few, precious seconds before Hannibal composed himself once more. He mourned its passing.

Will knew that he was thinking if he could manage to overpower both Jack and Will in time. This, for some reason, struck him as funny and he let out a low chuckle. Hannibal tensed and even Jack looked up at him, an eyebrow raised in puzzlement.

"Something funny, Will?"

"No. I just remembered…something." he replied, smiling again when he felt Hannibal's piercing gaze on him. He could tell that his lover was surprised.

Jack just grunted in response and devoted his attention to the excellent fare in front of him once again. He felt less inclined to do so. The dish was some French thing he couldn't even pronounce. Hannibal said it was pork, but Will was now quite sure that it was a person. It was delicious, it truly was. He just wasn't keen on eating people now that he knew about it. Still, he dug in, not wanting to arouse any suspicion. He could always tell Hannibal to serve him non-people in the future. _If_ they had one.

He knew full well that Hannibal would feel inclined to kill him out of self preservation, no matter how fond he was of Will.

Will found that he didn't quite mind that either. The last few months were, without a doubt, the best of his life. It was the first time he'd felt truly cared for. If death was the price to pay for his happiness, then alright.

Until Hannibal, he'd been a hermit, leaving as far away from civilization as possible and not interacting with others above strictly necessary. Even after Jack had dragged him into BAU, that hadn't changed too much. He liked Katz, Zeller and Price most of the time, but he preferred the company of corpses to people.

Until Hannibal.

Hannibal was different. He didn't mind that Will avoided eye-contact or that he had an army of dogs. He didn't care about his anti-social tendencies or his night terrors. He genuinely seemed to like Will's company, their conversations were never boring and they balanced each other out pretty well. They matched.

The man was, truth be told, perfect for him.

And for the second time that night, Will Graham surprised himself with an epiphany.

He was in love with Hannibal Lecter.

All of a sudden, he couldn't wait for Jack to leave.

ii

They were almost touching as they lay on the bed, but he felt as if there were miles separating them. The silence was thick and heavy; suffocating.

Neither Hannibal nor Will had addressed his new revelation even after Jack's departure. Actually, they had not spoken at all. Will had silently helped Hannibal with the dishes before retreating to their bedroom in a vain attempt to clear his head. His lover had joined him some time later and now, here they were.

When Will finally spoke, he was surprised that his voice was steady. He felt anything but.

"How long?" he didn't clarify further and Hannibal didn't insult him by asking for it.

"Over two decades."

That was a very long time and the Chesapeake Ripper sure as hell had not existed for so long. For a moment, he wondered if the rest of Hannibal's kills had the aesthetic quality of the Ripper's. That was when it clicked.

"You killed Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr. You're the copycat." It wasn't a question, yet Hannibal answered.

"Yes." Then, after a pregnant pause, "Why were you smiling during dinner?"

Will snorted, recalling the reason for his earlier humor. It wasn't something he should find funny. Then again, what he 'should' do had very little importance here as he was a hundred percent sure that wouldn't be able to carry it out.

"I just remembered all those cannibal puns you're so fond of. That's a dangerous habit, Hannibal, you might wanna be more careful in the future." He felt the older man tense at his words, whether at the warning or at what his words implied, he didn't know. He had basically said that he wouldn't turn the man over.

When he finally answered, his voice wasn't as carefully neutral as it had been. Instead, it held a note of…grief?

"You should have told Jack when you had the chance, my dear Will." A barely concealed death threat terminated by an endearment. How typical.

"Yes, I should have. I _should_ do a lot of things regarding all this Hannibal, but that doesn't mean that's what I _want_ to do." He replies, echoing his thoughts from before.

"Then, what do you want?" there was something in Hannibal's voice, a sliver of some emotion that slipped past the man's iron-control, but it was gone before Will could pick upon it. For the very first time, he cursed his inability to read Hannibal. He so desperately wanted to know what the man was feeling. He wanted to know if the doctor was experiencing at least half of the emotional turmoil he was. Probably not. The man was a damn psychopath after all.

He turned, so that he was lying on his side, and propped his head so that he could stare at the part of Hannibal's face that was illuminated by the moonlight. He really was beautiful.

_I just want you._

"I want whatever you want." He said instead of the thought that resonated within his head.

Hannibal sucked in a sharp breath and turned so he could face Will. His face was a blank mask, carved out of marble, but his eyes were intense and heated. "And if I wanted to kill you?"

Will smiled, marveling at how his heart ached for this man, and reached out to lay a hand on his lover's cheek, stroking gently, more to soothe himself than the psychiatrist.

"Then I suppose I'll let you." It was true. He would gladly let Hannibal carve his heart out if that was what he wanted.

"Why?" His voice was small and barely audible. Genuine confusion colored the other man's face, Hannibal finally abandoning his mask. The pain in Will's chest intensified, but he ignored it and kept smiling.

"Isn't it obvious? Because I love you."

That elicited more of a reaction as Hannibal swiftly rolled over and pinned Will to the bed with his body. His voice was a hoarse, angry whisper when he spoke, lips close to the empath's ear.

"You _cannot_ love me."

He huffed out a laugh (it was either that or scream and scream and scream) at that and felt Hannibal tense against him.

"I _cannot_ love you? And why is that?" he didn't give the older man a chance to respond, "Do you think I'm incapable of it? I assure you, I'm not, no matter how broken I might be. Or do you believe I don't know _you_ enough to _love_ you? I may not have seen _all_ of you until now, but I guarantee you, Hannibal, I saw enough; enough to know you care for me, more than anyone else ever has." Hannibal made a small noise and buried his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply.

"What makes you think any of that was real?" His voice was cold and cutting, in direct contrast with the desperate intimacy of his actions. Again, Will smiled. Maybe if he kept doing that the pain and the utter hopelessness of all this would just go away. "How can you know I wasn't just using you to prevent my capture?"

"Give me some credit, Hannibal. I _am_ an empath. And as I said, just because I didn't realize you're the Ripper doesn't mean I saw only your person suit." He chuckled, a dark, humorless sound that rang hollow, before continuing, "Shouldn't you be glad though? You can kill me now and be safe. We both know you can do it without drawing too much suspicion." He used both hands to lift Hannibal's head so that he could stare into those maroon depths. "Aren't you happy, Hannibal?"

He kissed him then, all teeth and tongue and fury born out of grief. Hannibal reciprocated, kissing Will as if he wanted to devour him. Perhaps he did. They were both panting when they pated, foreheads pressed closed, breaths mingling.

"This can never work, my dearest William. I will kill you. Or you will kill me. We can't co-exist, now that you know."

There was naked pain in Hannibal's eyes and voice. He felt a surge of dark satisfaction. It was good to know that he wasn't the only one _hurting_. He wanted Hannibal to suffer like Will was, trapped in a bitter design of his own making. Yet, at the same time, he wanted to wrap his arms around the older man and kiss away the pain. His chest hurt.

He remained silent. He didn't particularly want to die (not now that life _finally_ seemed worth something) but he'd never be able to kill Hannibal either. If his lover were to decide to end his life, he doubted he would put up much of a fight. It would be nice, in a way, to be destroyed and consumed by the one he loved. How many people would get that chance?

He let his acceptance show in his eyes and Hannibal let out a shuddering sigh, raising his head slightly so that he could stare into Will's eyes.

"But I find I cannot kill you."

That was… unexpected and he wondered if he would feel differently in the morning, when Will had to leave for work.

But for tonight, it was enough.

He pulled Hannibal down on top of him and wrapped his arms around him, feeling safe and protected even though the very idea was ridiculous.

"Let's get some sleep, love."

iii

Breakfast was a strained affair, even though there was no meat involved. Will kept waiting for Hannibal to pull out a knife and slice his throat. Hannibal seemed like he was waiting for Will to come to his senses and bolt.

Neither happened, though that did little to diffuse the tension.

Afterwards, Will lingered in the kitchen, unsure what to do. Finally, he gave up on finesse and blurted, "Hannibal, I need to go to work."

The doctor froze and set down the plate he was in the process of drying before turning to face Will. His face was as unreadable as it had been all morning but his eyes were another story. He said nothing, simply looked at Will for a long time, searching his eyes and face for _something_. He met that probing gaze unflinchingly, happily baring his soul for the other to see.

Finally, Hannibal nodded, smiling slightly with something akin to awed relief flashing across that handsome face. It suddenly hit Will that this _trust_ cost his lover more than he was letting on. Perhaps more than it cost Will to accept the truth about Hannibal and keep it a secret.

That hurt a little, but he had a feeling that Hannibal had a reason for being the way he was. Psychopaths weren't made overnight, although Hannibal was unlike any other he'd ever known. He was… unique.

So Will swallowed his hurt, walked over to the older man and cupped his face, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips to reassure him. Strong arms wrapped around him and tugged him close until they were flush against each other. Will pressed a kiss beneath his ear and whispered, reverently. "I truly do love you."

Hannibal's arms tightened around him for a moment before they let him go. His expression was melancholy as he did so, though Will could detect something like awe and adoration there. Mostly, though, he looked sad.

"I know, dear William." His name was a mere whisper and Hannibal abruptly turned away to continue with the dishes. He hastily left the kitchen, feeling that familiar phantom pain in his chest, and made his way upstairs to change.

He never saw how the man in the kitchen ceased his work and stood staring at nothing the entire time he was gone.

Will didn't kiss Hannibal goodbye as he usually did when he left, not wanting to add to his obvious uneasiness with this situation. He didn't even seek out the psychiatrist, opting to let himself out instead.

He was closing the door behind him when Hannibal called his name. The doctor joined him on the doorstep and pulled him into a searing kiss that left both men breathing hard when they broke apart. Hannibal pressed their foreheads close together and whispered fervently into Will's mouth, as if willing the empath to believe him.

"I do care about you, Will, even though I don't know if I can ever truly love you. I don't know if I can _love_. But I do _care_."

Will smiled, a broken thing, just like the two of them, and replied, "I know. It's enough that you care, Hannibal. That's all I need."

He pulled away and made his way to the car, waving at his lover before driving away.

He didn't quite understand the forlorn look on the man's visage.

He would soon.

iv

He returned to a vacant house and let himself in with his key. For a second, he wondered if Hannibal had gone off to kill someone, then firmly pushed the thought away. Later.

Jack had not needed him at a fresh scene today, so he'd spent the day going over an old case file with Beverly as he didn't have any classes anyway. He hadn't been as nervous as he thought he'd be; an odd sort of calm washing over him the second he entered the building in Quantico.

Maybe he was a better actor than he realized.

But now, he felt unease creep into him, for no particular reason. It made no sense. Hannibal could have just gone grocery shopping for all he knew. And even if his lover was off somewhere killing someone, it wouldn't change anything. Not for him. Hell, compared to the _tasteless_ serial killers whose works he was forced to endure, the Ripper's aesthetically pleasing kills were a sight for sore eyes. (Jack would have a fit if he knew his pet profiler's thoughts on this matter.)

No, his discomfort wasn't from any of that. It was the house itself; something about this atmosphere wasn't sitting well with him. He was more sensitive than most people and his instincts very rarely lied.

It was with a fair amount of dread that Will finally turned on the light; eyes scanning the living room in hopes of realizing what was rubbing him the wrong way. No such luck. Everything was familiar and comforting, but the unease didn't dissipate. Something kept nagging at him as he made his way to the dining room. It was as if his subconscious knew something he didn't and was trying its damnest to keep it from him. Wouldn't be the first time.

The dining room was the same as well, with its lovely cobalt-blue walls and beautiful artwork. But his eyes were arrested by the seemingly innocent piece of paper placed in the middle of the dining table. It could have said anything; maybe Hannibal really was out shopping or maybe one of his patients had called for an emergency therapy session. It has all happened before.

But it was the first time he left a note for Will, usually preferring to tell him things directly.

His heart sank.

It was with slightly shaking fingers that he picked it up, instantly recognizing the familiar cursive script.

_Dearest William,_

_I regret doing this to you, but I must. It is what's best for us both. The house is yours to do with as you please; you will find the appropriate documents in the bedside drawer. _

_If I were anyone other than who I am, we could have had a future together. Alas, I am who I am, so the point is moot. I will not insult you by asking you to forgive me._

_Please do believe me when I say that I do care about you, more than I have cared for another human being in a very long time. Be well, my dear Will._

_Ever yours,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

His first thought was, _'If you were anyone else, I wouldn't have fallen in love with you.'_

The next was, _'You fucking coward_._'_

Then, for a while, there were no thoughts at all.

v

He didn't know why he moved into Canada, of all places. He no longer wanted to stay in the States; simply relocating from his old home wouldn't have been enough. Europe wasn't even an option. Asia seemed like overkill. Canada was a sensible option, so he picked it, but not because of any particular fondness for the place. He wasn't particularly fond of any place, really, not anymore.

Jack hadn't been pleased, of course. Actually, he'd thrown a damn fit. He'd begged, bargained, threatened and even tried the good old guilt-trip on him. He'd said he needed Will to catch the Ripper. He'd just stormed out lest he yelled that the Ripper would no longer be a problem. He wondered how long it'd take for Jack to associate the Ripper's absence with that of Hannibal Lecter. It'd be a while, since the Ripper occasionally took breaks. And knowing Jack, he might just connect it with Will Graham's disappearance. Or maybe Lounds would. That'd be interesting.

Alana had tried to make him stay as well, claiming that it wasn't 'healthy' for him to flee the country just because his boyfriend had disappeared without a trace, though Hannibal had been kind enough to let Alana know at the very last moment so that no one would suspect that Will went berserk and killed his lover. He'd gently shut the door in her face.

Price had simply wished him better luck in life wherever he was going. Zeller had seemed torn between being happy and being guilty for being happy.

Strangely enough, it was Beverly who supported him wholeheartedly through it all. She'd helped him find new homes for all his dogs- even Winston, pack up his stuff and get his affairs in order. When he'd asked her _why_, the only reply she'd given was a cryptic, _'Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Good luck, Will.' _

He hadn't even stepped inside Hannibal's house after that evening. Not since he'd woken up from his fainting spell that evening and realized that it wasn't all just a very fucked up dream. He had cried then, allowing great, shuddering sobs to wreck his body. It was the kind of hysteric, messy breakdown he would have been embarrassed to let anyone- even Hannibal- see.

Then again, what were you supposed to do when someone you loved enough to cut out your heart and present it on a platter (literally in their case, though he may have had to leave the heart-cutting deal to the other man) ran from you because he was _afraid_. Because that's what Hannibal was, he could tell that much. Afraid of a relationship that was unpredictable and beyond his control.

That was the only time he'd cried though.

At first, all he felt was grief, which he tried to drown by throwing himself into his work. Then, he'd been hurt by how Hannibal trusted him so little (or did the doctor trust himself so little?). A sort of crippling loneliness seized him soon after; the kind he had not felt since his teenage years. The emotional wreck he had been only served to amplify his stress; his nightmares and sleepwalking episodes increasing as a result. Finally, he'd just snapped and quit his job.

Now, though, he felt none of that. Well, he did, but the complex cocktail of anguish, longing, exasperation, desire, heartache, disappointment, concern, hurt, _hatred_ and love was buried deep, deep inside of him.

He'd always love Hannibal.

He'd always long for Hannibal.

He would also hate the man even as he loved him.

But for now, all he allowed himself to feel was anger. A deep, smoldering rage that lurked just beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed. It poisoned his blood, corrupted his thoughts and grounded him. It chased away his instability just like the man he felt it for did once.

It wasn't wise, to let an emotion- though he hid the true extent of it from all else- rule him like this. Actually, it was insane, stupid and downright self-destructive. Good thing he didn't care. Besides, if it wasn't for this anger- directed mostly at his runaway lover, but also at the world in general and himself as well- he would most probably have turned into a pathetic drunk and wasted away.

This was better. He was comfortably settled in a cheap, rundown apartment in Markham, working as a waiter in a small, nearby restaurant. An unremarkable existence, but he was content in the new skin he'd fashioned for himself. Perhaps, his old acquaintances would fail to recognize the rash, short-tempered Will Graham who had no qualms about standing up for himself, looked people in the eyes and didn't bother rescuing strays. All the better, then.

He felt like he was waiting for something though. He didn't bother fooling himself by thinking it was for Hannibal- that one was not coming back (no matter how he wished otherwise). No, it was something else. A higher calling. There was something inside of him that was waiting to come out and he had a feeling it was nothing pleasant. He was done with pleasantry anyways. Being a _good boy_ had done nothing but hurt him, after all.

If the monster inside himself whose presence he had tried so hard to contain finally wanted to come out and play, he would let it.

vi

Esther was a waitress at _The Golden Fork_ – the restaurant Will worked at- and the only one among the rest of the staff who went out of her way to socialize with him. It should've been annoying, but she was the kind of person that was impossible to be annoyed with. Besides, her heart was in the right place. So Will talked to her, or rather, he allowed her to drag him into conversation now and then. And it was all too easy for him to see that her constant cheer, ready smiles and tinkling laughter all masked a deep sorrow. There was grief, hurt and mute, helpless anger buried in the depths of her dark eyes, hidden from most others.

He wasn't most people, but he made no effort to broach the topic. He had no right to and she couldn't have known that he saw too much too easily.

But he did enjoy her company. She had some of Alana's warmth combined with Beverly's easy charisma. It was a soothing combination. She wasn't a friend, but he felt comfortable conversing with her, which was rather rare. And that was why, when he found her standing beside her car one evening, visibly frustrated, he'd tried to help and when the problem seemed too severe for him to instantly fix, he offered to drive her home.

Her initial reaction was that of pleasant surprise, but there was something unnatural about the fearful hesitation that had followed. He could see that it wasn't him she feared. Still, she accepted.

Esther was uncharacteristically nervous throughout the drive and her voice quivered somewhat as she gave him directions to her house. It was a fifteen minute drive and soon, they were pulling up in front of her modest home.

The reason for her unease became all too obvious shortly after. A man- about his age- shot out of the house and was beside the car before the woman had even exited the car fully. Will felt a frown settle on his face as he proceeded to drag the obviously terrified and feebly resisting woman into the house. With a final venomous glare at the car, he banged the door shut, but not before Will saw him shove Esther to the floor.

The reason for Esther's constant distress was all too clear then. No wonder she had been reluctant to let him drive her. He wondered why she had accepted if she knew it would elicit such a reaction from her partner. Then again, she was a natural optimist and had probably not expected _this_.

Will knew what he should do. Even without his empathy, he'd be able to tell this was an abusive relationship. With it, he could see- from his brief glimpse of the man- that his colleague's partner was obsessive and dangerous; perhaps even a threat to her life. He _should_ inform the appropriate authorities since the woman in question seemed unwilling to. That's what one would normally do under such circumstances.

However, he had other ideas.

That _something_ he had been waiting for finally made itself known.

Esther didn't come to work the next day and he felt a twinge of worry. She showed up the day after with no _visible_ damage, but it was all too easy for him to spot the awkward way she held herself and how she often flinched while walking. In the evening, she approached him, smiling tightly, "Will, I'm sor-"

He shook his head and cut her off just as quickly, saying, "Don't apologize. _I'm_ sorry. I won't tell anyone unless you want me to." He hoped she wouldn't want him to. He had other plans for her lover. Esther smiled at him gain, seeming relieved. "Please don't. I know you may think it's weird, but… I love him, you know."

"Of course. Take care, Esther," he replied and made his way home. All the while, he couldn't help but think how love affected people and made them do things they normally wouldn't dream of. He had experience in that regard, after all, and see where it got him.

_Love makes fools of us all._

He had a fair amount of psychopaths and serial killers lurking around in his head, giving an edge that a normal beginner wouldn't possess. He had no intention of being a copycat killer, though. He also had no intention of gaining a… reputation, but he wanted _this_ for himself. A new way to hold on to his sanity. It was funny, though, how it had been love and its aftermath that finally led to him succumbing to the instincts he'd kept suppressed for years. A tiny voice in the back of his head wondered what _he_ would think of Will now.

Stalking the man had been easy enough, especially since he had a tendency to leave go out after midnight and waste away at bars. An alcoholic. Of course, his new activities greatly cut down on Will's sleep, but years of insomnia and night terrors had left him capable of functioning on very few hours of it. Besides, being a waiter was much easier for him when compared to his previous occupation.

Esther's boyfriend's name was Steve Lawrence, he found out after a couple of days. He liked to beat his lover almost regularly, was careful not to leave marks where others might see and would fly into a rage for the littlest of reasons- like Will dropping her off. He evidently held a sort of violently obsessive, possessive 'love' for Esther.

It may have been somewhat unfair on Will's part to confront the man on a Friday night when he was so inebriated that he could barely walk straight. Nonetheless, that's what he did. He could try more risky methods when he had a bit more experience. It was all too easy for him to knock Steve out and haul him into the back of his trunk. He wasn't a small man, but years of lugging around boat motors hadn't been without benefit for Will. The drive to his chosen location was uneventful, Steve blissfully unconscious in the trunk. He couldn't do this in his apartment, so he chose an isolated area a fair distance from where he lived. That was where he drove to, knowing from his earlier scouting trips that he wouldn't be interrupted (probably) for a long time. The place was surrounded by a fair number of trees and even had a small stream nearby. That'd come in handy.

He wasted no time in rousing the man, stabbing him non-fatally in the abdomen to 'wake' him up. The result was immediate and the pathetic whimpers from behind the gag that were the only audible result of Steve's attempts to scream brought a smile to his face. He could definitely get used to this. Will looked the man in the eyes, smiling somewhat manically.

"Hello, Steve."

Recognition dawned in the man's murky green eyes- now utterly sober- followed by outrage followed by abject terror and he began writhing on the ground, trying to twist his limbs out of the tight rope that bound them. It only had the effect of increasing his bleeding and scarping his skin. Will leaned back from where he was crouched beside his prey and closed his eyes, finally letting the irrational, all-consuming anger he'd kept pent up for the last few months take over him. He had enough confidence in his mind to not worry about leaving behind discernible evidence. Of course, he'd check later, but for now…

When Will opened his eyes- that he could remember- again, he was standing above the bloody remains of what had once been Steve Lawrence, covered from tip to toe in blood and gore, satisfaction curling deep in his gut. He inspected the damage he'd caused with a sort of detached curiosity. His limbs had been messily cut and torn, the eyes were gouged out and his torso was a mess of blood, bones and flesh. There was no art here. No beauty. Just fury. But it was gratifying nonetheless .

Perhaps next time- and the dark beast purring _contently_ inside of him assured him that there _will _be a next time- he could try something a bit more sophisticated. For now, he had some work to do.

That night, Will slept peacefully, dreamlessly and woke up feeling more alive than he'd felt ever before.

Esther missed out on work for a couple of days, but when she finally returned, she seemed… confused more than anything else. Once again, she sought him out after work, as he was about to leave.

"Hey, Will, can you spare me a moment?"

"Of course. What is it?"

She bit her lip nervously and her eyes darted around, never settling on his. When she finally talked, the words came out in a near incoherent rush and she was taking deep, gulping breaths by the end, worried and scared and confused, "Steve- my boyfriend, that's his name- is mi-_missing_. I, uh, dunno what to do. He doesn't disappear for days like this. I'm, uh, worried. I don't know what to do. I really don't." For a brief second, Will wondered if she'd always been such a wreck or if it had been Steve who reduced her to this from the bright, beautiful creature she now used as a front. Still, she was strong in many ways. He'd give her that.

"Hey, calm down," he replied, awkwardly laying a hand on her tiny shoulders, "Have you filed a report with the police?" She shook her head. "Then, do that. Has he done this before? Disappeared?"

"No, not like this. I mean, he'd leave the house at all times of the night and return only when he wanted, but it's the first time he has been gone so long. And all his stuff is still there. Do you- do you think something has happened to him?" Despite her earlier claim of loving him, a small note of hope had crept into her voice. Of course, it was entirely possible to love and hate someone at the same time. He would know.

"I don't know, Esther. But why don't you file a report and hope for the best. Who knows, maybe he'll be home by the time you return." She nodded, still nervous and scared, and turned to leave but paused, turning when he called out. "Why did you come to me with this?"

Her answering smile was a tight, pitiful thing. "Because you're the only one who… _knows_."

He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile, turned and climbed into his car. Inside, his small smile bloomed into an all-out grin.

vii

Two years later, Will moved to Florida, no longer feeling the need to stay away from the U.S. His memories were subdued things now and his mind was under his control. After all, he had found a new way to cope. Murder wasn't, perhaps, the healthiest coping mechanism, but very little in his life had been healthy.

He easily managed to procure a teaching post in the Psychology department of a University, published a few monographs and managed to co-exist with his peers. Teaching was something he was good at and he had missed it the last couple of years. He was worried that Jack Crawford might try to find and engage him in field work again, but nothing of the sort. It seemed life was content to let him happily add to the body count instead of chasing others who did the same. He'd killed a few more times in Canada but every single murder had been different; Will expertly merging and modifying the techniques of different killers (and calling up on his own overactive imagination every so often) to make each one _unique_. Some were found, some were not. And he hadn't lost control like he had the first time ever again.

But nothing-not a single damn thing- drove Hannibal Lecter from his mind. Not permanently. He wasn't really surprised at that, though. He had long since resigned himself to hearing a deep, beautifully accented voice in his head, reciting thoughts that were not entirely his own. It was as comforting as it was frustrating.

A part of him- some remnants of the old Will Graham- was tempted to take in strays again, but he resisted the urge. There was an innocence-a sort of purity- he associated with dogs that he had no wish to taint. There was no room for innocence in his life anymore.

So he lived alone in an isolated property about two hours away from his workplace. It wasn't in the middle of nowhere like his old home in Wolf Trap had been, but it was acceptable. The drive was long and exhausting, but he was used to those as well. He preferred solitude, craved it even_. (And he tried to ignore how his body yearned at night to be held in strong, nimble arms, how he wanted to smell the rich, earthy scent that _he_ had always exuded, how his lips craved the feel of thin, chapped ones against them and how he longed to lose himself so completely in _him_ that he didn't know where one ended and the other began.)_

He held himself in check for three months before he became restless and began hunting. Will found his prey within a few days-a middle aged man with an appetite for unwilling, prepubescent boys.

Will took his time with the man, letting his hoarse screams ring loud and clear in the soundproofed basement of his new house. He carved shallow, swirling patterns into his chest, careful to cause more pain than actual damage, flayed his arms and legs and smiled when the screams died down into choked whimpers. He'd never castrated anyone before, but this one seemed quite deserving of the act. Unfortunately, the man died before he was fully done, shock and blood loss finally getting to him. Will shoved the flaccid cock down the man's throat, having every intention of leaving it like that for whoever found him.

He opted not to display the body with too much grandiose- that was for more deserving prey- simply leaving the body on the man's own bed, surrounded by ample evidence of his deplorable proclivities.

By the time he returned to his house for the second time that night, he was thoroughly exhausted even though his body was a curious paradox. On one hand, he felt a heady rush from the kill while on the other, there was a bone-deep weariness tugging at his limbs. All he wanted to do was collapse into his bed and embrace what he knew would be a deep, dreamless sleep. He thanked the God he didn't believe in that it was Saturday and he could sleep in to his heart's content.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

A strange sort of foreboding settled over him even before he set his foot inside the house. He gripped his gun- a constant companion during his hunts even though it was rarely used- and stepped inside. He knew instantly that he wasn't alone in the living room, but all he could see was a broad silhouette by the window.

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he turned on the light, weapon trained on the intruder.

Hannibal Lecter stood there, in all his regal glory, holding the bloodied clothes Will had left in the basement.

The gun fell from his numb fingers before he could even fully process the scene.

viii

"Will?"

A tiny part of Will's brain that was still capable of rational thought registered how small and uncertain Hannibal's voice sounded, completely uncharacteristic of the man in question. However, the rest of it was too busy concentrating on stopping him from hyperventilating to give much attention to that part.

Hannibal took a hesitant step towards him and he all but leaped back, taking in great gulps of air and trying to regulate his breathing. He held out a shaking hand, halting the man.

"Are you real?" he asked, though he _knew_ that this was no hallucination (_the stag had abandoned him along with Hannibal_), not even one of those dreams that often left him with an aching heart. But he needed to hear the words to know for sure that his brand of insanity hadn't shifted to include such visions.

"Yes, I'm real. Will, this is real." He didn't sound like himself and his eyes were slightly wide as he stared at Will, but he didn't try to approach him again. Will lowered his arm and closed his eyes-not the wisest course of action- to take deep, slow breaths. He forced his mind focus, clung to the words uttered to anchor him to reality. A few inhales and exhales later, his breathing calmed and his trembling ceased. For how long it would last was anyone's guess.

He opened his eyes warily. Hannibal was still there and he hadn't moved. Neither said anything, simply stood there staring at each other for the first time in over two years.

Hannibal looked pretty much the same; tailored three-piece suit, perfectly arranged hair and an aura of perfect control. His face, though, was as expressive -if not more-as it had been in the latter stages of their relationship, when Will could read even the minute shift in his lover's features and Hannibal just stopped regulating his face so strictly in his presence. Now, they showed a cocktail of emotions, joy and fear being the most prominent. There was concern too and something akin to wonder in those painfully familiar eyes.

Will had to draw upon every ounce of self-control to keep his own face blank when faced with such a sight. He _couldn't_ give into his emotions, not yet; not when he didn't even know what he would do if he were to lose control. A part of him- the part that desired to take in strays once more- wanted to throw himself into the man's arms and sob in relief while another part of him wanted to tear Hannibal apart and make him _hurt_.

"Why are you here, Hannibal?" his voice sounded somewhat detached, but it was the price he had to pay for his tenuous grip on his self. And he'd be lying if he said that the look of utter shock that settled on Hannibal's face for a brief second was not satisfying.

He didn't, however, receive an answer. Instead, Hannibal gently brushed his fingertips- Will tried not to eye them too closely; he needed no memories surfacing right then- along the bloodstains on the fabric he held in his hands. The gesture and the accompanying expression were strangely reverent and despite his best efforts, Will felt something stir within him.

"This was… a surprise." His voice was rougher than Will remembered, raw and emotional in stark contrast to his own bland one. It was as if they'd switched roles. "Will you tell me why?" Hannibal raised his eyes from the shirt to lock with Will's. The look in them almost took his breath away.

He huffed out a dry, humorless laugh and took a step forward; felt his control begin to wane.

"You tell me why, Dr Lecter." The use of the title was deliberate jab and the flicker in Hannibal's eyes was reward enough for an effort that cut him deep as well. But the doctor's face didn't morph into that familiar blank mask as he had expected. He wished it would. It would be so much easier if it did.

"I've never been able to predict _you_, William. That is what makes you so interesting."

"Oh? Then, why did you _run_, Hannibal?" he hissed, making no effort to rein in his fury, "Was it because you lost interest? Or did you find me a little too interesting for comfort?"

He looked away from Will, shifting his eyes to the side and there was a slight tremble in his voice when he next spoke, betraying him just as Will's betrayed him.

"Will, I-" Hannibal began, taking a cautious step forwards. Will moved then, surging forward to punch Hannibal square in the face and tackled him down to the floor when he stumbled. The bloody shirt lay discarded to the side.

Hannibal made no move to free himself as Will straddled him, grabbed his lapels and shook him hard, once. He began speaking, the words no longer cold or toneless, everything he'd bottled up for all this time finally spilling forth from between his lips.

"You want to know _why_, Hannibal? Because _you_ broke me, that's why! You ran, like a fucking coward and just _left_ me. What did you think I'd do? Forget it all and move on, glad I would no longer have to harbor a serial killer? Did you think you were doing me a favor? Or did you think I'd just spill the beans to Jack?" he yanked the pliant man beneath him upwards so that their upper bodies were parallel; Hannibal's bent at the waist awkwardly. "I would have given you my life if you'd just asked, but you just _left_. Do you have any _idea_ what that did to me?" The last words were a broken whisper and Will slumped forward, drained. There was so much he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. He wanted to scream and rant and cry. He wanted Hannibal to feel the pain and the hurt that had plagued him. He wanted the man to know how fucking _lost_ he had been, how tempting it had been to just _give up_. But he was so, so tired and the words died in his throat as his arms fell to the sides.

A pair of arms wrapped around him and he felt himself being tucked in against Hannibal. Someone was speaking and it took him a while to realize that it was Hannibal, repeating the same words over and over again into his ear.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Will. I'm so sorry…"

He sounded raw and he could hear an echo of his own pain in them. He was too emotionally spent from the sudden, intense barrage of emotions to muster the appropriate reaction as he realized that he hadn't been the only one to suffer from their separation.

He should feel happy about that and not just because it meant he had not been the only one who'd had to go through that, but also because it meant their relationship had mattered to Hannibal as well. It had been real. He should be happy. He wanted to be happy.

But he was just so tired.

"I'm so tired, Hannibal." He managed to whisper before he passed out.

ix

The darkness was comforting and Will was reluctant to emerge from it. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to gather his bearings. He was lying on something soft, with his head propped up… on a pillow? No, that wasn't right. It was harder, less pliant but still cozy. A lap? There were gentle fingers combing through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. He recognized the familiar sensation and smiled sleepily. He was about to open his eyes, with Hannibal's name on his lips, when the past two years caught up with him.

He wasn't in the doctor's house in Baltimore or even his old place in Wolf Trap. He was in Florida. He had not seen Hannibal in over two years when he showed up abruptly in his house. And the last thing he remembered was fainting in the man's arms.

The last remnants of sleep that clung to him dissolved and his eyes flashed open, the smile fading from his face. He found himself staring into deep maroon orbs that were observing him carefully, waiting for him to react. The hand in his hair had stilled, but it was still nestled amongst his curls. Now that he was fully awake, he could feel another arm flung loosely across his waist, holding him not pinning. He broke eye-contact to mutely observe his surroundings. They were in his sitting room, on his couch. He had half expected to be somewhere else.

He should get up and demand an explanation from Hannibal for this clusterfuck. Maybe punch him again for good measure. He _should_.

But as Will was finding out, should was a word that held very little importance in his life.

He didn't want to get up, not just yet. He was still furious with Hannibal, but he hadn't felt this peaceful in years. He remembered his fervent apologies, finally able to appreciate their implications now that he was no longer reeling inside. His anger was pushed to the back of his mind as curiosity took its place. He returned his gaze to Hannibal.

"Why are you here, Hannibal?" he asked quietly, repeating his earlier query. "And do not lie to me. No half-truths, no crafty omissions. Give me the truth, it's the least you can do." He saw the struggle in his eyes; saw how hard it was for the older man to meet those terms. He could also see that Hannibal _wanted_ to comply.

So the nod, when it came, was slow and hesitant, but sincere.

"I wanted to see you. I… missed you, William. I've missed you from the second I watched you leave for work that day, knowing that I may never see you again. These past few years, you were constantly in my thoughts, haunting me." Hannibal paused to take a deep breath and the hand buried in his hair tightened fractionally. He bent his head until their foreheads were resting awkwardly resting together. Will made no effort to draw away from the intimacy. He couldn't. The next words were whispered fervently, desperately as if Hannibal was willing him to believe them. "I craved you presence. I often spent hours on an end just imagining you and everything about you- your eyes, your smile, your voice, the way you taste, how you felt in my arms… I missed it all. I tried to _forget_, Will, to leave you be. I kept telling myself that this was best for us both. I managed to lie to myself only for so long. Life lost its flavor without you."

He kept silent even after Hannibal finished, knowing the words to be true, but not wanting them to ebb his fury, cast aside as it was for the time being. He wasn't all that surprised at how Hannibal's feelings mirrored his own. They were much alike, after all. Always had been. Always will be.

But he didn't offer platitudes in return, didn't confess that he had been so _lost_ without him, didn't yell at the man for being an idiot. All that could come later. Instead, he offered another question.

"Why did you go?" his voice broke and wavered on the last word, everything he'd left unsaid leaking into his tone.

Hannibal's voice was quiet in a way that had little to do with volume when he answered. "Because I was afraid."

_Of what? _The query lingered in the air though Will didn't voice it. He had his suspicions about the reasons, but he needed to hear it from Hannibal himself.

"I am destructive, Will. I have always been. Everything I love… I tend to lose. I feared that if we remained together, I would end up killing you. So I left." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle that sounded a little broken to Will. "I never anticipated that my feelings would be so… intense."

"Everything you love, you tend to lose…" he echoed his earlier words, "You said, back then, that you didn't love me. That you didn't know if you ever could."

"I _lied_, Will. To myself as much as to you. I was elated when you said you loved me and so very terrified." Hannibal pressed harder against him, as if he were trying to merge with Will. "But I did love you, even back then. I had for a very long time."

After that, they were both silent for some time, content to stay like that and breath each other in. Will felt something akin to relief unfurl inside of him. Hannibal was not off the hook by any means, but the cynical part of him that had seen him in his house and wondered if he'd been there to kill him was slowly giving way to the part that'd wanted to sob in relief at the sight.

He had long since accepted that he would always love Hannibal and that his love would only give him heartache. Maybe that wasn't so. He reached up and fisted his hand in Hannibal's hair, gently tugging so that he could look him in the eye. He complied with little resistance.

"Do you still believe you'll end up killing me?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Because I am not letting you go _ever_ again, Hannibal." Will smirked as the doctor's eyes widened at what his words implied and pushed further, "If you try to run, I will follow you and drag you back , no matter where you go."

Hannibal smiled, relieved and brilliant, his entire face lighting up. "I have realized that I wouldn't be able to hurt you to save my life, William. Maybe a part of me always knew that and that was why you scared me so much."

"I am still angry, Hannibal."

Hannibal nodded, and both of his hands gently, reverently cupped Will's face. "I know. Can you forgive me, one day?"

This time, when Will smiled, it was one void of pain or bitterness. His first true smile in over two years.

"I think I can. One day." _Soon._

When soft, familiar lips pressed against his, he felt like he was finally back home.


End file.
